Barricade
by SoulfireInc
Summary: While chasing a killer, Gil and Malcolm's car ends up in the Hudson.
1. Plunge

The siren drowned all hope of conversation as they sped along the bridge, Gil weaving in and out of traffic with practiced skill. Malcolm glanced to his phone.

"Dani and JT are across the bridge, they're gonna form a barricade."

Gil only nodded and pushed the car faster.

The car they were chasing – a deep blue Chevy – ducked around a van, its mud-spattered body reflected in the silver of a fuel tanker up ahead. Malcolm gripped the edge of the seat, willing himself to stay still. If Kennedy got away from them the chances of finding him again were almost nil. He'd proven himself adept at avoiding detection, at moving under the radar. Hell, it was pure luck and JT's hunch that'd started them on this chase.

Which, Malcolm had to admit, was pretty awesome.

The car's grey ceiling was intermittently lit by the flashing blue of Gil's undercover light, the siren wailing rhythmically around them. Gil swerved, avoiding a bouncing hub cap as the Chevy grated against a Honda in its hurry to get past the tanker. The latter's driver, however, had clearly copped the undercover car and had veered into the middle of the lane, blocking the Chevy's escape. The Chevy darted to the far side, desperation clear in the partial skid marks as the LeMens edged closer, almost bumper to bumper. The other commuters had had the good sense to slow out of the way.

The tanker, realising the Chevy was on its outer side, turned sharply toward the barrier, clearly intending to force the blue car to halt against it and the wrought iron of the bridge's railing. It was a noble idea, Malcolm thought, and would've worked, if it hadn't been Kennedy driving the Chevy. If it had been a narcissist with clinical borderline personality disorder, someone whose existence didn't hinge on winning, on outsmarting, on getting away with six murders and counting, the day might've ended very differently.

But the NYPD was onto Kennedy. Malcolm knew there was no version of this day that didn't end with Kennedy dead – whether by his own bullet or an officer's, the chances of bringing him in alive were depressingly small. As soon as the tanker swerved into the barrier, Malcolm knew what would happen. He braced himself against the dashboard and ceiling, yelling for Gil to stop, to slow down, to get into the inner lane – but it happened too fast.

Kennedy accelerated, his outer wheel mounting the curb in the sudden burst of speed, propelling the deep blue Chevy up and into the tanker's cab. Malcolm caught a glimpse of the driver's horror right before the Chevy buried itself in his window.

If the Chevy had only hit the cab, there might only have been two deaths that day. But, as Gil slammed on the brake, the Chevy whipped into the tanker itself, metal screeching on metal as the reinforced container buckled under the strain of impact. Gas spurted from the gashes like blood from an artery, dousing the Chevy and the road as momentum carried tanker and car into the guardrail. An ear-splitting grinding _crunch_ rent the air apart as the two vehicles barrelled through the steel lattice, weakening it, ripping great beams from their anchor points to hang like broken fingers over the twenty-foot drop to the Hudson below.

The LeMens skidded on the road, wheels fighting for purchase on the gas-slicked surface, the sudden braking now working against them as momentum shoved them forward. Gil swore, Malcolm tensed, and neither saw the spark of metal on metal that ignited the blast. The ruined Chevy was obliterated by a punch of flame, the heat searing, rolling over them with raw, blistering power. What remained of the guardrail was torn apart, and tanker and Chevy tipped and fell, bringing the heart of the inferno with them.

But the blast caught the lip of the LeMens, picking it up as though it weighed no more than a dead leaf, and hurled it unceremoniously to the side. Malcolm and Gil were thrown sideways, their seatbelts tightening with crushing force and Malcolm's world blinked out of existence as his head collided with the window. The ceiling buckled around them as they crashed through the broken barricade. Malcolm cried out, one hand reaching for Gil, the other glued to the dashboard as the car tilted, suddenly weightless. His stomach lurched as the smoke and fire were swept away to reveal an endless grey glinting silver. He gasped in a breath as the water leapt up to meet them. He heard Gil call out, telling him to hold on, and the car flipped, its nose now below them, a split second before they slammed into the deceptively gentle waves.

Malcolm was shoved forwards, the car buckling around his legs, head hitting the windscreen. Sound was extinguished with the screech of bending metal, replaced by a high ringing that deadened the rush of water as it clawed its way up Malcolm's legs. The rear of the car flopped downward, shocking them again but the engine was already waterlogged, already heavy enough to drag them inexorably down.

For a moment, all Malcolm could do was breathe. Everything was a dank blue-grey, save bursts of violent colour. It took a moment for him to remember the undercover light, flashing around the interior like a tiny cobalt lighthouse.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and he forced himself to look over at Gil. His forehead was bleeding, frantic eyes framed by red lines. His mouth was moving but the sounds reached Malcolm only as rounded, bloated things. Shock, he suspected. Made sense. He glanced down at himself, to the oddly muted pain in his shin. He put a hand to his temple and drew bloody fingers away.

Gil shook him and he turned back. The water was already at their thighs, hungrily lapping higher.

"Bright!" The words finally resolved themselves. "Can you move?"

Having no idea whether he could, Malcolm nodded, wincing as his brain seemed to flinch from the movement.

"Deep breath," Gil ordered, his hand moving to Malcolm's chest as though that could stop the water inching over his stomach. "And wait for the pressure to equalise. Then out. Got it?"

About half of that made sense to him, but Malcolm nodded, not wanting Gil to worry. The pain was intensifying, his head pounding, wrist pulsing, chest burning. Worst of all was his leg. It was too dark to see but he was pretty sure half the water between his knees was red. He reached a hand down and felt a jagged shard of metal embedded in his flesh. The front of the car had buckled around him, stabbing through his shin and pinning him in place.

The water was at mid-chest now and rising faster. Dazed, unsure why everything was moving so slowly, Malcolm fumbled for his belt buckle. He punched the release with his thumb but the tongue was stuck fast. He tugged on the strap, the water now teasing his chin, and on the fourth go he wrenched it free. He stood up in his seat, crying out as hot pain flashed through his leg, and pressed his face into the buckled ceiling.

"Gil –!" he gasped, looking sideways. The water was playing with the flashing light, throwing shadows and dancing with refractions so nothing was still.

"Deep breath, kid!"

Malcolm just had time to drag in a lungful of air before the water ate the last of the space with a slapping _plop._ He blinked hard against the sting of the river. Gil was shoving his shoulder into the door, trying to force it open. Malcolm copied him, grimacing against the many complaints his body shouted at him with every movement. The glass of the window was shattered, the nexus of the spiderweb clotted with blood. The doorframe had warped, bending itself into a death trap. His ribs seared with the impact. Malcolm looked back to Gil as a hand clawed at his shirt and he saw the other door open to the murky expanse. Gil grabbed a fistful of his jacket and pulled.

Malcolm couldn't stop the scream as his leg was wrenched sideways. Something inside him _cracked_, jerking to the side and heat surged through the limb. Precious air bubbled past his face, briefly obscuring Gil. Malcolm wrapped his fingers around Gil's wrist. He stared at him through the water, willing him to honour his silent plea. He tried to pull Gil's hand away but he only scrabbled harder, burying both hands in Malcolm's shirt and losing a few bubbles of his own.

The light flashed, blue, black. Blue, black. Gil's gaze was wide and more fearful than Malcolm had ever seen. He smiled, tightening his grip on Gil's wrists, and gave a small nod.

_It's okay. Go._

Gil shook his head wildly, pulling himself closer, trying to get a look at Malcolm's leg, but he pushed him back, toward the door, to air, to life.

No sense in both of them dying.

Gil fought back, both of them losing air.

Malcolm raised a hand and laid it on his mentor's cheek. His lungs were burning, compressing inside him, but he kept smiling, even as his last breath bubbled past his lips. He tried to say with his eyes all the things he didn't have the air to voice, poured all his logic and persuasiveness into his gaze.

He saw the moment Gil understood. Pain filled the dark gaze and it stung, deep in Malcolm's heart. Ached.

He didn't want to die. But he knew there was no way Gil would leave him. Not if there was a chance to save him. He'd die with him rather than save himself. And Malcolm could never let that happen. Not if he could stop it.

It was poetic, really. The first life he ever saved would also be his last.

With a final smile, Malcolm mouthed the words he had never said enough, and took a deep breath.


	2. Breach

Bright's hand was cool against Gil's cheek. The kid's smile was tinged with sadness and his eyes were alight with a strange calm, a stillness that didn't belong there. His mouth opened, and blue-lit bubbles danced up passed his face, playing with his hair, disappearing along the ceiling. Gil's heart leapt between his stinging lungs. The quiet in his gaze now carried the weight of unsaid words, of a silent decision already made, and Gil understood.

_No._

He tightened his grip on the kid's shirt, shaking his head, baring his teeth to keep his scream inside. Sorrow flickered over Bright's face, but his smile didn't waver. He leaned forward slightly, his grip firm on Gil's cheek, and mouthed _I love you._ Before Gil could so much as blink, Malcolm inhaled.

He jerked viciously, hand pulling away as pain shattered the calm of his expression. His chest bucked, throat working as his lungs sucked for air that wasn't there, and Gil's air exploded from him as he watched his kid drown. Malcolm stilled, eyes wide, lit by the bright blue. They looked ethereal. Unreal. Then awareness faded from the bright irises like a stone falling into the blackness of a lake, and he closed his eyes.

A fresh pain burst in Gil's chest, erasing the acidic burn of his breathless lungs. He shook Malcolm, and the kid swayed idly, just floating there on the seat.

Gil looked around. There had to be a way out of this. A Hail Mary, one final trick. He wasn't gonna let this happen. Not without a fight.

A clutch of shimmering silver caught his eye and he let go of Malcolm, pulling himself up over the bench into the back seat. The ceiling was a jagged array of battered steel, ripped in some places, mockingly smooth in others. In the far corner hung a tiny pocket of air, no more than half a breath, trapped by the angles of warped metal. Gil contorted himself, pressing his lips to his last chance and breathed.

The LeMans had come through for him. One last time.

He pulled himself back to Bright, running his hands along his thigh, searching through the haze of blood flashing in the stark light. Working quickly as he could Gil felt around Bright's leg, fingers tracing the shard of metal pinning him. It was thin, but strong. Gil wrapped his hand around it and _yanked_. It bit into his palm, drawing fresh blood into the water but didn't move. He tried again, and this time the shard broke free – and so did Bright's leg. Gil could feel the vibrations of the break through the water but he didn't care. He just grabbed his kid and dragged him out the open door.

They'd sunk far enough for the murk of the Hudson to choke the light to a weak shimmer far above. Gil kicked furiously, jaw clenched around his screaming lungs, holding Bright against his chest. Blackness twisted at the edges of his vision, coiling closer like tendrils of poison, shutting out the paltry light. Gil clawed at the water, willing himself to last just a few more seconds. He let his lungs empty, knowing it would buy him another few heartbeats.

Bright was heavy. Dragging him down. Their sodden clothes only adding to the weight. The river wanted them. It wasn't letting go.

The blackness eroded the last of the light. Gil's legs stilled. His arm reached one final time ... and his fingers broke the surface. With a last surge he pulled Bright up and the cold air was knives on his face but he'd never felt anything better. Air barrelled into his lungs and he coughed, sinking back below the water. Spluttering he brought them back up and leaned back, letting his lungs calm as air came when called.

Bright's head was lying against his shoulder and Gil ran a hand over his face, brushing his soaked hair aside. His eyes were still closed, chest unmoving under Gil's arm. Gil's fingers came away red and he twisted to look at Bright's right temple. The cut was ugly but not a priority. Neither was the compound fracture on his left leg, bobbing against the surface.

"Hold on – for me, kid," Gil panted, straightening himself and getting his bearings. They'd been almost over the bridge when they'd fallen. He could see deep grey smoke curling from the break in the latticework, fire just visible against the black tarmac. Cars glinted in the sun, trapped by the missing chunk of road. Gil followed the empty corridor stretching on to land, to safety. Shit, it was far. And he wasn't exactly a champion swimmer.

Bright's head lolled on his shoulder.

"Come on, Bright. I got you. Stay with me."

He kicked out, pulling with one arm, holding Bright with the other. Time narrowed to the pull of his muscles, the sting in his teeth as cold air whistled past in sharp gasps. Every beat of his heart held a prayer, to God, to Jackie, to Bright.

_Don't take him too. Help our kid. Stay with me._

The current ghosted past them, subtly pushing them closer to land and Gil didn't have the energy to be thankful for it. He just swam on, trying not to swallow river water. Desperately dragging an unresponsive Bright along.

A pier loomed over them. Too high to climb. Gil swam on, his energy almost spent, until they reached a ramp rising out of the water. Barely able to hear over his own ragged breaths, he heaved Bright out of the water, hardly able to lift him now. Once his head and chest were clear of the waves, he slumped to his side beside him.

He allowed himself three breaths. Then he was back on his knees, pulling Bright onto his back, catching his lolling head in his hand, the other pressing into his chest. Mustering strength he didn't have, Gil braced both hands over Bright's sternum and punched them down. Then again. And again. He counted aloud, exhausted brain unable to focus on anything else, not the river washing over their legs, not the drops sluicing from his hair, not the tears chasing after them, camouflaged as they struck Bright.

After thirty compressions, Gil forced two breaths past Bright's lips. More compressions. More water, unwilling to let them go. More energy failing as each punch grew harder and harder and Gil knew how this was gonna end, knew what would happen if he gave in to exhaustion, if he let this window shut. He pumped harder, grunting with the effort, too breathless to say his prayers aloud, to beg properly.

_Don't take him. Please don't take him. Not my son._

The brain could only survive for eight minutes without oxygen. Bringing someone back after five was near impossible, especially without equipment, without drugs. How long had it been since Bright drowned? Was he too late? Was he beating a corpse?

Two more breaths. Three more compressions. Burning shoulders. Aching lungs. Heart, starting to understand. Sinking inside him, drowning all over again, and God, he couldn't do this, wouldn't survive this, not Malcolm too, not after everything he's survived, not – not _him._

A font of clear water spurted from Bright's mouth, splashing down over his chin. Gil laughed aloud, pumping into his chest with renewed hope.

"Come on – kid," he gasped, trying to keep his voice soothing. "You can – do it, come – back to me – come back –"

Bright jerked, back arching weakly and Gil froze. Bright turned his head, a frown etching itself into his skin and more water surged over his lips.

_"Malcolm!"_ Gil grabbed the kid's shoulders and drew him into a sitting position, holding his head under his chin as relief unlocked the air he hadn't been able to find. Malcolm spluttered and coughed against him, still mostly unconscious but alive. Breathing. "Thank God." His voice cracked. "Oh, thank you. I got you, kid. I got you. It's okay. Easy, easy. Just breathe. Just breathe."

He ran a hand along his back in a steady rhythm and slowly Bright's frantic gasps eased into something less painful.

"I'm here, kid. I'm here. You're okay. Oh, you're okay."

He pressed his cheek into Bright's hair and simply held him for a long moment, soothed by the steady rasping of his laboured breaths. The cold settled into them slowly, wrapping around them in a parody of a blanket and soon they were shivering in harmony and Gil's sluggish mind ground back into gear.

"We can't stay here," he mumbled. Bright groaned slightly, still out of it. He patted Bright's back. "We gotta get you to a hospital." He looked up the ramp, only now bothering to take in their surroundings. It led to a tiny ship yard, two sailboats resting on trailers, their rigging clinking in the slight breeze. Beyond them was a boathouse.

That would do.

"Come on, kid. I'm getting you outta here."

Pulling himself onto shaking feet Gil heaved Bright over his shoulders, staggering slightly under his weight, legs still swaying with the remembered motion of the river. Bright moaned slightly but didn't stir. Taking one careful step at a time Gil made his way up the ramp and past the boats, putting a hand on a bow to steady himself as a wave of dizziness threatened to bowl him over.

He knocked on the door to the boathouse, trying to summon the air to call for help. He leaned against the wall and tried the handle. Unlocked. He pushed it open and edged in sideways. A short hallway led to a reception area. A young man sat behind the desk, a phone to his ear. He glanced up at Gil, eyes widening in shock and he quickly hung up.

Gil meant to explain the situation, say he was a Lieutenant with the NYPD, that his consultant needed an ambulance, that they needed divers in the river before Kennedy's body was washed past the point of recovery. He meant to reach for his badge and lay Bright carefully down on the couches opposite the desk.

Instead, he collapsed.

He couldn't follow what happened next. Activity bustled around him. Someone took off his drenched coat and wrapped a blanket around him. He saw Bright propped up nearby, an oxygen mask around his nose and mouth, eyelids fluttering, bandages soaking up the blood from his leg. Sometime later, EMTs arrived and before Gil could thank – or even really see – who had helped them he was in the ambulance, lying on one side with Bright on the other, the paramedic monitoring their vitals between them. A mask made its way onto his own face and his brain slowly began to wake up. The ambulance jostled over potholes and Gil closed his eyes as it exacerbated a burgeoning headache.

"You okay there?"

He squinted at the paramedic.

"How long til ... the hospital?"

"Five minutes."

Gil looked to Bright. "How is he?"

The EMT followed his gaze. "Stable. He'll need a few tests, make sure his lungs have no lasting damage. Leg's gonna need surgery. Might be concussed, too. But he'll be okay."

Relief swept through Gil like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Warmth spread from his chest, coaxing his arms and legs back into feeling. Once the pins and needles receded from his fingertips he reached across the narrow aisle and took Bright's hand.

His eyes were open. Bleary, only half-focused, but he turned at Gil's touch.

"Gil," he mumbled, smiling under the mask.

It had never been so good to hear that voice.

"Hey, kid. How you feeling?"

Bright frowned delicately. "Sore." His voice was dry and uneven, cracking on the single syllable.

Gil snorted. So did the EMT. "Yeah, no kidding." He squeezed his hand. Then scowled, propping himself up on his elbow and levelling Bright with the full force of his fury. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again I swear to God I'll – I'll tell your mother!"

There was a beat of silence as Bright's eyebrows rose in shock.

"You wou-wouldn't."

"Wanna count on it?"

Bright let out a tired chuckle, shaking his head. "No."

Gil leaned back on the stretcher, letting the paramedic fix his mask in place.

A moment later, Bright rasped, "I'm sorry Gil."

He snorted. "Yeah, you should be." He turned to smile at him, giving his hand another squeeze.

Another silence settled over the cab, longer this time. The ambulance slowed to a stop and the EMT opened the doors, hopping out and updating a waiting nurse. Before the chaos of the hospital burst their bubble of calm, Gil turned back to Bright.

"Hey kid?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you too."

Gil just had time to see Bright's surprise melt into a warm smile before he was pulled out of the ambulance. Finally satisfied they'd survived the day, Gil closed his eyes and let himself be wheeled away too.


End file.
